By Akhilesh Dhait
I. The Whisper Before the Waltz
Where twilight stalls with secrets half-confessed,
The sky removes its oath, too tired to protest.
And faces bloom like porcelain in frost—
Each smile rehearsed, each gaze a secret lost.
The soul—a marionette carved out of dusk,
Draped in the scent of roses turned to musk.
We learn to bow before we learn to speak,
And wear our masks so tight they seldom leak.
I stood once at the threshold of that hall—
My shadow tall, my voice disarmed and small.
I felt the weight of names I had to be—
A ghost in glass, applauded silently.
But something in me trembled through the thread—
A hunger not yet choked, a self not dead.
I wore the mask, but felt the seams protest—
A soul half-caged, half-clawed within my chest.
II. The Invitation – To a Ball of Shadows
The summons came in twilight’s tailored thread—
A call to dance where living souls play dead.
“Adorn your ache,” it said, “disguise your name.
The night is blind, and all the masks the same.”
The world had dressed in silk and veiled command,
A theater crowned with laws we understand.
They sell the mirror, then they dim the light—
And praise the man who’s perfect out of sight.
I touched the wax—its seal still warm with lies,
A trembling urge beneath my compromise.
I said, “I’ll come,” though something felt undone—
A voice that sang inside me, told to run.
III. The Dance – A Choreography of Lies
The violins began—a ghostly kind of art,
And led me through the hollowed roles I’d part.
Around me, gods in garments stitched with pride—
Each step rehearsed, their hollowed truths denied.
They danced as saints, as rebels, kings, and kin—
A ballroom flooded with the ghosts within.
Their laughter rang like chandeliers of glass—
All staged to crack, but beautiful en masse.
I moved as taught—a puppet carved in gold,
My silence sculpted, elegance controlled.
The rhythm held me like a prayer unsaid,
Where echoes spoke of names I thought were dead.
IV. The Mirror Room – Fractures and Reflections
I walked into a room—mirrors covered or turned,
Dust everywhere, like nothing was ever learned.
My face returned—but not the one I wore,
It bled through cracks I never saw before.
The glass betrayed a gallery of skin—
Each pane a version I had locked within.
A parliament of masks began to speak—
Some born of fear, some fashioned to be weak.
And there I stood—uncloaked, unnamed, unplanned,
A trembling truth with nowhere left to stand.
I did not speak; the silence fractured me—
I met my eyes, and knew I couldn’t flee.
V. The Unmasking – The Soul Screams in Silence
The mask dissolved—not torn, but slow and shy,
As if it feared to let the self slip by.
No scream escaped, no shatter split the floor—
Just silence, thick enough to start a war.
My skin hung loose, a costume never mine,
While silence carved its truths in crooked line.
I touched my face—it trembled to be seen,
A portrait smeared between the “was” and “been.”
I did not cry. I simply came undone—
As night undoes the colors of the sun.
The soul, once dressed for guests it couldn’t trust,
Now lay in ash—and yet, it whispered: must.
VI. The Exit – When Silence Begins to Speak
I walked away—not out, but into me,
Through corridors once carved by who to be.
The walls, once loud with scripted praise and threat,
Now echoed back the things I won’t forget.
No crowd remained, no violins, no light—
Just breath, and dust, and footsteps born from fight.
The silence, once a cage, became a creed—
I followed it—not loud, but with full need.
I did not rise—no grand, redemptive sway—
I simply stayed, and let the mask decay.
In that soft break—unsteady, barely mine—
I heard a voice like dusk, shaping the spine.